Hunters of the Ring
by MegGenScull
Summary: [LOTR XOVER] Sam and Dean are entrusted with Lucifer's most prized and powerful possession, his ring, which, if found by the nine demons that serve him, the white eyed Ring Wraiths, will be returned to him and mark the start of the apocalypse. They must destroy it and see to the end of Hell. Retelling of the Lord of the Rings, modern day, Winchester style
1. Prologue: Silas Knowles

**A/N: To combat some deadly writers block, I plowed on with this idea I got while watching Lord of the Rings the other night. It's sort of set no where, and there's a few unexplained things in it. So they got the knife, they don't know Zachariah, Cas has been excommunicated, they aren't vessels, Meg's in her second outfit, Harvelle's bar is still standing.**

**John, Mary and all those people are still dead though, yeah. I hope you'll pick it up, if not, just message me and I'll try to explain it.**

* * *

The Men of letters was a deadly secret. More so than the Hunters they grudgingly worked side by side with. More than the creatures the monitored and killed. The Men of Letters were everything, all that knowledge, all that expertise hoarded in one convenient place.

Silas Knowles was a scholar in the organisation, strictly desk work, his growing arthritis (oddly early for a man of his age, his physician had frowned) a reasonable excuse to get him out of demon torture and dealing with the leathered apes who called themselves Hunters. He liked his job, he liked working for something bigger than him, he enjoyed fighting in a war where he was always a step behind friendly lines.

It was a late night when it happened, deep and lost in the shelves of the library, he had taken to glancing, every so often, from his copy of the bible to the texts confirming the existence of supernatural creatures on the wall. He'd been moving through, cataloguing and writing important little squiggles next to books that were either lost or moved from where they were supposed to be.

He clucked his tongue and pushed his glasses up to the bridge of his nose, leaning forward and squinting his eyes despite the ocular assistance. _Daemone _was very out of place, it's call number utterly mismatching the ones around it. Silas pushed his pen down and marked it on the sheet, moving on, checking and crossing, losing himself in the mindlessness of the work.

So lost, in fact, that he almost missed it.

It was a book that hadn't been touched for many years, that much was obvious when the cover fell open and swarms of dust rose up into his eyes. He blinked copiously and pulled off his glasses, squeezing his eyelids shut until he'd wiped as much of the dust off the spectacles as he could. He sighed, straightened and pushed them back on, the wire rims cutting neatly around his ears and folding into his short hair.

He fondly remembered his eldest, Marion, cutting it for him. She had clucked her tongue, so similar to him that he felt his heart tear a little, and reprimand him for not coming to her sooner, for letting it grow so long.

He leafed through the book, quiet and unassuming for a measure of moments, before he stayed utterly still, utterly quiet.

His breathing stopped, his heart rate quickened.

He could feel the blood being moved to his brain, his fingers where he was grazing the book cover and his feet, a pair that ached with the cold and yet had carried him for so many years.

Despite his determination to ignore the arthritis until it left him bed ridden, he suddenly wished for a chair. He didn't care for the indignity of falling and needing help to his feet by the small, timid librarian who was perhaps one of the only women that the organisation had seen.

He swallowed and found his throat coarse.

He closed the book slowly and replaced it. No need to go crazy, right? It was an old, out of date book. So out of date, even, that it had mentioned the sulphur additive to Croatoan like it was a sudden miracle breakthrough.

But it wasn't wrong. It was out of date, it was suspicious, but Croatoan did contain traces of sulfur.

It wasn't _wrong_, dammit.

Silas put the book under his arm, steeled his nerves, urged on his softening feet and marched out of the library, list of books lain forgotten on a distant library shelf.


	2. The Shadow of the Past

Sam and Dean hadn't slept for a while, but that was commonplace for them. For once the dawn seemed impossibly far off, and they both settled into a soft sleep, Sam's hand splayed across his bed, Dean's face squashed into his pillow.

Neither had been particularly pleased when a knock, harsh and fast, on their door.

"D'n," Sam said, his voice a slurred mess. "D'n. The do'r."

Dean didn't respond, even though he was fully aware that Sam would have noticed the change in his breathing.

"_Dean_," he said, more awake now, just about ready to kill his brother.

Dean just groaned into his pillow.

Sam sighed and pulled himself up, yawning and stretching, hand reaching to the ceiling before falling between his shoulders, massaging the tired muscle.

He made his way to the door carefully, on lookout for anything dubious, painfully aware of the gun on the table a few metres away. There were more knocks, three, hard and desperate on the cheap paint, knocks that were joined by a voice. A female voice.

"Samuel! Dean?"

Sam started and jumped to the door, swinging it open, the chain lock rattling and spinning as the wood collided with the wall.

Sam stared at the woman in front of him. She looked up with pleading eyes. "Please, oh Lord above give me strength, _please_."

"Who-" Sam forced himself to blink the sleep out of his eyes. "Who are you? What's wrong?"

"Are you Henry Winchester's grandson?" she asked, glancing into the room to see a sitting Dean, glancing over at the arrival with equal mix of concern and suspicion.

"Uh, yeah, I..." Sam looked to Dean, who nodded. They'd never really known much about their grandfather, only that he'd walked out on their dad when he was young and that the gruff hunter had never forgiven him for it. "Yes. Who's asking?"

The woman took a deep breath. She was older, late 50's to early 60's, hair drawn painfully back into a bun kept in place by clips that also supported a green scarf that wrapped around the greying hair. Her clothes were expensive but obviously travel worn, and her fingernails were chipped. "Marion Knowles, daughter of Silas Knowles."

Sam glanced at Dean questioningly, but his brother only shrugged and shook his head, kicking his feet out of bed. "Sorry, who?"

Marion seemed lost when they didn't recognise her father. "The...the Man of Letters? You must know him!"

"Look lady," Dean said, defensive and closer to the weapons than Sam. "Let's drop the pretenses. You know we don't know who you are, we know you know, we all know you're probably some sort of demon."

Marion blanched. Sam was half tempted to turn and shoot his brother an exasperated glare. He had such a way with people.

"Demon? I'm no _demon_," Marion said, strength returning to her voice, picking up after she lost it in their lack of knowledge. She reached up and tugged on her crisp shirt collar, revealing to them the anti-possession rune. Dean swallowed and narrowed his eyes.

"Hunter?"

Marion looked around timidly. "No. Look, may I come in?"

Without waiting for a reply, she pushed through, dumping a small handbag on the table next to their guns, not batting an eye when she saw their arsenal.

"Whoa," Dean frowned. "How are you all inked, and _not _a Hunter?"

Sam shut the door, mirroring Dean's confusion. The brothers moved near to Marion, who sat carefully on one of the seats around the rickety table near the kitchenette. "My father was a Man of Letters."

"You're a cult baby?" Dean summarised.

Marion frowned. "Hardly. The Men of Letters is an ancient organisation, or rather, I assume it still _is_. I haven't heard from them, or from anyone in this world for nearly 40 years."

"So why now?" Sam asked, muscles still tight, still coiled, still ready. This hadn't been the first time they'd been duped. Just because she had a tattoo didn't pass her for all the tests they had.

Marion swallowed. "My father passed. A few nights ago today. Henry was one of his friends. I went looking for him but heard he'd died, and so had his son. Luckily for me he had grandsons." She took a deep breath. "Old age. You know how it is."

Sam softened. "I'm sorry."

"He leave you something?" Dean asked.

Marion nodded her thanks to Sam and pulled out a small package for Dean. "Something huge."

Dean raised an eyebrow at the tiny handbag.

Marion looked skyward for an instant and then pulled out an envelope."I assume you boys know the story of the Four Horseman of the Apocalypse."

"We've heard it," Dean said. "Once or twice."

The old woman nodded, ignoring the hunter's sarcasm and pushed the envelope on the table, as far from herself as she could. "The rising of the Four Horseman means the rise of Lucifer is near. Judgment Day. Black Friday, whatever you believe."

Sam smiled at the joke, even if it were a poor one. "Right. So, has one been found?"

Marion looked at the two boys clearly. Despite her age, her gaze was just as razor sharp as it would have been 30 years ago. "One of the rings has been found, for hundreds of years."

Sam sat down opposite her and looked at the envelope, suddenly wary of whatever was hidden beneath the folds of paper. "Which horseman?"

"None," she said tersely, slipping the ring out and letting the simple gold band fall to the table. Even though it couldn't have been that loud, the sound of it colliding with the plastic, smashing down in front of him, forcing it's way into his sight; Sam couldn't look away. He was so engrossed in those few seconds that he didn't hear Dean sit next to him, his big brother's arm brushing against his for a fraction of a second as he reached out and picked the ring, glancing over it and putting it back down on the table.

"_None_," Dean reiterated, frowning at their guest. "What do you mean?"

"That this is not War's or Death's or Pestilence's or Famine's," Marion said. "This ring works in the same way as they do, except we can only guess at who's it was."

"So your best guess is a fifth horseman?" Dean asked, glancing to his brother, who had barely acknowledged anything since the table had been assaulted by the small gold band.

Marion nodded. "Or rather, the first Horseman. We believe that the ring belongs, _belonged_, to..." she gripped her hands onto each other, balanced on the table in front of her. "Lucifer."

"_Lucifer_?" Dean asked, dubious. "As in, fire and brimstone, tail and pitchfork Lucifer?"

Marion looked up, her eyes back to their strobing intensity. "As in Fallen Angel, War Against Heaven, angel of Light and Music Lucifer."

That silenced Dean.

Marion looked over at Sam, suddenly realising that he was no longer taking an active role in the conversation. "Are you alright, m'boy?"

"Hmm?" Sam looked up. "Oh, yeah, fine."

"You been following, Geek Boy?" Dean asked. "Ancient lore...this is kinda your area."

"Lucifer's ring," Sam said. "Fire and Brimstone. I've been listening."

"Right." Dean turned to Marion. "So, lady, why are you here? What's this got to do with us?"

Marion sighed. She rubbed her hand over her eyes and Sam noticed how tired she was, how the bags under her eyes suddenly flared and darkened when he'd torn his gaze away from the tiny speck of gold. "You're children of the Men of Letters. You're the only ones left. My father had a few friends in the organisation, friends who I knew wouldn't turn away from something like this. Richard Lu, Harry Jones, Fredrick Lewis; all heir-less and dead."

"What?" Dean asked, looking at Sam, looking back at Marion. "I thought you said that this was like a cult?"

"Ancient Organisation," Marion corrected. "And it is, but when my father was excommunicated for stealing the ring-"

"Hold up," Sam said, frowning. "Your father, Silas, stole Lucifer's ring?"

Marion nodded, but she was frantic. "Don't think badly of him, the Men of Letters refused to part with it, refused to try and destroy it. When he stole it, they exiled him and his family, two sons that would have followed the path after him. We haven't heard from them since."

"You want us to _destroy _it?" Dean asked. "And you can't just burn 'n salt because...? What about the sons, your brothers?"

"There's only one place it can be unmade," Marion said. "Where it was forged. My father knew this. He hunted his whole life for the place, but he only found it in, well..." she blinked away tears. "He needed a machine to help him breathe. My brothers died, lung cancer and drowning." She sighed and rubbed her temple. "My family, it seems, is cursed."

"Where is it?" Sam ensured his voice didn't show the fear, the trepidation of what she was about to say. He would be calm and collected and utterly for the people he worked with. Marion's face was broken, her hair was the only semblance of order about her. He would not give her more to worry about. He would not make her relive her father's death more than she had to.

"Hell," she whispered. "Oh, boys, it's Hell."

Dean and Sam were silent and still beside each other. Neither met the other's eye. Hell? _The _Hell?

The screams and the pain and the torture and the ever constant never changing always apparent fear that leached through the plane of existence like a black poisonous mist?

The Hell where demons roamed and screamed and laughed and pulled through souls, broke souls, turned souls from themselves?

The Hell where a day was an eternity and an eternity was the blink of an eye, where madness was commonplace, where people just lost and _lost _and _never ever _won?

"Hell?" Sam tightened his hands into fists when his voice cracked. He steeled himself when Marion looked up at him and he saw how scared she was, how _sorry_.

"Hell is large," Marion said. "Infinite, quite possibly. It's doorways, that's all it is."

"Doorways to torture chambers," Dean said, eyes burning with a low disturbing intensity.

Marion nodded. "Some, yes, but you must remember that Hell defies every law that we have for our existence. There are doorways, and there are doorways that lead to the heart of hell, there are doorways that lead back to earth, frightening ways, but _ways_-"

Sam was pale. "The...the _centre _of Hell? That's where it was forged?"

Marion seemed at a loss, and then she nodded, surprised at the correct assumption. "In the ever-active volcano, Mt. Doom."

Dean seemed to forget the gravity of the situation for a moment. "Wait, Mt. Doom? The Devil couldn't think of something a little classier?"

Marion seemed a little peeved at his response. "Mt Doom, yes, to destroy it you must drop the ring into the fire, the lava."

"How would we survive?" Sam asked, his voice was a little weak, scared, but certain. "In Hell?"

Marion swallowed and smoothed back her already impeccable hair. "You won't, not for long."

"Get in and get out," Dean said, who was taking it with much less seriously than his brother. "Done."

"Why destroy it?" Sam asked suddenly, looking from Marion to Dean. "Why not just hide it, or well..."

"It's destruction would lead to an era of peace that we have never known," Marion whispered. She looked almost hopeful now. "Oh boys, don't you see? When the ring is gone, when Lucifers power is gone, Hell will crumble."

Sam and Dean looked at each other, shook and trepidation and hope, _hope _of all things, written, mirrored, across each others faces. It had been long, so _damn _long since they'd felt hope.

(Was it hope? How would they even know?)

And as Sam felt it warm him, the golden glow it filled him with, the sense of infinity, the sense of peace, he wondered if he'd ever felt it before.

And when Dean felt it, spreading through his blood, more intoxicating than anything he'd drunk, far more beautiful than anything he'd ever touched, he knew that he hadn't.

"And the demons?"

Marion looked a little lost on this. "No idea. Perhaps the ones in Hell will die, the ones in the world survive. But there's an end, an _end _if you finish it. After...after _all _of eternity, there might be a way to finally fix the world."

Sam and Dean looked to each other.

"When do we leave?" Sam asked, his bravado false, but his intension anything but.

Marion's face split a smile, and her eyes glittered, her cheeks shone in the low light. The bags seemed the shrink before their eyes. It was odd, seeing the lines in her face squish and morph to fit the happiness in. Heaven knows how many times she had a reason to smile before them.

"First, let me put down a few ground rules." Marion pulled out a chain and slipped the ring onto it, pushing it one and fixing the clasp so that it lay coiled on it on the table. "Never put it on."

"What happens if you do?" Sam asked, curious despite himself.

Marion looked at him carefully, and then at Dean. "You turn invisible."

The brothers exchanged a quick glance. "Okay."

"Tell as few people as possible about it," she said. "Word spreads fast, _especially _through Hunters. Especially about something this big."

"Done."

"One last thing," she said, and took a breath. "You can't do this on your own. You'll need help, for at least some of the way. Make sure you trust them, make sure that they know only what they need to."

"You want us to lie?" Dean said, almost cold.

"I want you to end this war, boy," she said, keeping her gaze locked on his. "You'd do well to remember that."

Dean sat back, crossed his arms and said nothing.

Marion sighed and rubbed her temple. "One last thing, or two, perhaps."

Sam clenched his hand and waited.

"The ring will try to deceive you, it will try to control you, it will try to get back to it's master. Lucifer getting back the ring would spell the end to the world as we know it, and that's what the Ring wants more than anything in the world. It will tempt you into taking it, and in taking it, should you take it, you will fall. Once you claim the ring for yourself, there's only so long until you turn into a demon yourself. I recommend a single bearer, swapping it between yourself would only ever lead to jealousy, create more problems than it solved."

"I'll take it," Sam said, feeling it, feeling the trial that this would be, the power that he'd felt before pour over him. He recognised it now, the evil, the darkness. He would not fall, not when he had his brother to save along with everything else. Not when the world rode on his shoulders. "Let me."

"No way," Dean said, flat, strong, no room for arguments. "No _way_."

"Dean-"

"Sam," Dean's pointed gaze was locked onto his brother. Sam returned it with equal ferocity. "No way, not in a million years. _I'll _take it."

"Dean-"

"_Sammy_," his voice was low, warning him, warning him to even _try_-

"Dean!" Sam said, loud and direct and _angry_, oh God, he hadn't felt this angry in years. Would he ever listen?

Would his dumb, stupid, self-sacrificing, broken brother _ever _let him carry some of the load?

"You've taken care of me your whole life! For once, please, _please_, I'm begging you, let me take care of you. Let me carry the fucking weight of the world for once!"

And Dean looked at him, like it was the first time he'd ever looked at him, eyes wide, mouth set.

Sam steadied himself for an argument.

Marion watched, suddenly conscious that she was looking in on something heartbreakingly beautiful, like an old lullaby, but something deadly too. Two brothers who would break themselves for each other.

Dean opened his mouth to speak, to yell, chastise, guilt, whatever he had to do to get Sam out of this crazy path he'd set himself on.

But he saw his brother. He saw him breathe and fume and prepare himself.

Later he would say it was because Sam was so riled that he might've busted a lung if Dean hadn't caved, but in reality, in that startling second of clarity, he saw a deep, coarse strength within his brother. And a part of him, small but prominent, wanted to see how strong his little brother really was.

"Ok," Dean said, and he saw the confusion that spilled like sand into the sea across his brothers face. "Ok, Sammy. Just..."

When he looked at him, when Sam relaxed and Dean saw his shoulders droop, he knew that there was nothing he could say.

"Just be careful."

Marion took her leave after that, the 60 something bidding them farewell and disappearing into the night, the only sign that she'd been there at all the small ring that sat on the table.

Sam left it there, and Dean didn't touch it.

They both spent the night sleepless, despite how long it had been since they'd had some real shut eye. Both knew the other wasn't asleep. They'd heard each other's deep, even breathing since they could remember.

Both, though, thought, a single strand of consciousness that they chased around for the better part of the Witching Hours, was that they would never see Marion Knowles again.

And for some reason, both felt small and sad when they realised it.


	3. At the Sign of the Prancing Pony

**A/N: Please note that the chapters will vary in length**

Word did spread fast, of that Marion was absolutely right, so it was paramount that when they sent word to Bobby, to Cas, to Ellen and Jo and whoever else they had who they could count on that they didn't tell anyone, not a soul. The lines were dangerous to converse over, but giving Bobby enough hints had hit him over the edge. He'd heard the lore, read the lore, breathed the lore for his 6th and 7th year without Her and nearly squealed when he worked it out.

(Her being his wife of course, the one he'd let down, the one who he stabbed.)

"Keep your panties on," Dean said, frowning, half tempted to hold the phone a way from his ear to save himself should Bobby decide to freak out.

"_Stuff it, son_," Bobby said, but Dean could hear his smile on the other end of the line. "_Harvelle's?_"

"The one and only," Dean said, nodding to Sam who was sitting across from him in the Diner. The town was small and rarely frequented by anyone other than hunters (of the animal type) in the right season, but the coffee was unusually good, and so was the food, which had made them reluctant to leave. It'd been a few hours since Marion had left, the heir to the Men of Letters sending them no word of where she was should they need to find her, nor that she'd changed her mind and decided to take the ring to someone she actually knew.

Speaking of the ring, Dean saw it sitting at the base of Sam's neck, the gold chain glittering under his layers.

Dean wanted to take it off him, to chastise him, to push it onto himself and carry this burden; complete with occasional quirky one-liners from his baby brother, but Sam was a man now, he wasn't the nobbly kneed twelve year old who'd allowed himself to get punched so that the other kid would go through life without ever having to feel what a fist to the face felt like. This wasn't the nine year old who'd stay up as long as he could, glaring at his dad every time John told him to go to sleep, forcing his eyes open until he drifted off in the bed that he and Dean shared. He wasn't the six year old who waddled around, grinning and laughing, giggling and trusting. Sam, as hard as it was for him to admit it, had grown up.

It almost scared Dean, how much Sam didn't need him anymore.

"_See ya on the flip side,_" Bobby farewelled, hanging up the phone.

Dean hung his up and pushed it into the pocket of his jacket, straightening up and taking a bite of the burger that sat in front of him.

Sam looked up and grimaced. "Dude, seriously?"

"You can't say that every time I eat a burger, Sammy," Dean said after swallowing his massive bite. "After about the fiftieth time it becomes a little redundant."

"You have sauce all over your face," Sam deadpanned.

Dean picked up a napkin and wiped over his mouth, pulling back and seeing the red-

(brighter than blood, friendlier than blood)

-within the folds of white.

"Huh," Dean said, wiping the rest off, folding the napkin in half.

The bell tinkled at the door and three people walked in. They ignored the waitress when she asked them what they would have and moved into the shop.

Dean watched Sam's response to them. He was facing them, in his seat he could see everything. Ever twitch in his face was a thousand words, ever coil and relax of his muscles spurred understanding from his watching brother. His father had joked that one day they wouldn't ever need to speak, reading each other as easily as if they were psychic.

Dean was achingly aware of them, and, from what he could tell, salad forgotten, eyes fixed on the two men and one woman that had just entered, Sam wasn't happy with what he saw.

They were still, right up until the three stopped at their table.

"Dean and Sammy Winchester," the woman said, her eyes flashing, not to black, but to white. "It's an honour."

Sam stood and pulled out the demon knife. Dean started a little when he saw that, he didn't know that Sam had brought it.

The waitress screamed and backed away when she saw the knife, but Dean was too focused on the three demons to focus. The other people in the diner made a move to stand, but the hard snap of one of the truck drivers neck put a fast end to that.

Dean felt his heart in his throat, felt raw adrenalin kick start his body into overdrive.

They hadn't even looked at him when they'd done it.

"There's this rumour," the woman said, flicking back her vessels blonde ringlets. "I dunno if it's reached you yet. About some dumb ol' ring?"

Dean didn't look at Sam to know what was happening now.

"We have no idea what you're talking about," Sam said stiffly, but convincingly.

She sighed and her eyes flicked back. "Shame, really. 'Cause now we have to kill you, you know how it goes."

The two demons behind her smiled.

She was apologetic when she turned to the waitress and the utterly still other members of the public who were watching the exchange. "You'll go too, unfortunately."

She sighed down at her white dress. "And to think I'd just picked this bad-boy up from the dry cleaners."

Sam and Dean started and looked over at the chef toting a massive hunting gun. The bullets had pulsed through the white-eyed demons.

The she-demon turned and hissed, baring her teeth as fangs. "That was rude, wasn't it, boys?"

Sam lashed out at the demons back. She hissed and straightened, the blade digging in further as she hefted her spine. Light flickered throughout her body, but she didn't die, she wasn't dying.

Sam locked eyes with Dean, and he saw the horror of his mistake.

Blood dripped down her white dress, spoiling it, staining it, the red, darker and fuller and far more morbid than the sauce that had hidden beneath folds of a colour not so different to the one she wore. Sam pulled the knife from her wound and stepped back, closer to the window, back into the wall.

The three turned, together, heads snapping at such a rate that Dean was sure that their vessels were already dead.

So Dean smashed the window with his elbow, the glass shattering around the table, tiny pieces cutting into his neck and cheek. He uncapped the small canister of salt and threw it at the three demons, who stumbled back as the white hit their skin, and leapt out of the window.

Sam followed, his massive frame tumbling out after his big brother. Dean hauled him to his feet and they ran off, blood soaked knife held in Sam's hand.

"Dean!" Sam shouted, looking back and seeing that the demons weren't following. "Dean, they'll kill them!"

Dean swore and raced on. "Come on! We have to get to the Impala!"

Sam clenched his fists, stopping, drawing Dean to a halt, and Dean watched, a little transfixed as he put his hand over his chest, where the ring was.

"C'mon! We can exorcise them!"

"Sam!" Dean tugged on his brothers arm, pulling him gruffly so that he faced the way they had to go. "We don't even know if the exorcism will work!"

"We have to try," Sam said, still looking at the diner, a diner that was deadly quiet. "What's the point? To any of this? What's the point if we don't save them?"

Dean was quiet, thrumming with adrenaline, emotion. If they went back, the demons would take the ring, Lucifer would rise and the apocalypse would come.

"Oh God," Sam said, blood seeping from his face. He was deadly pale when he looked at Dean. "You don't...you don't think that they took Marion, do you?"

Dean did think, he was almost certain that that must have been how they found the ring. He didn't want to know how they tortured her to find the information, how they pushed and shoved and pricked and broke to dim the light and lose the hope. "No, Sammy, no. We saw her a few hours ago. She's fine."

On the surface, it made sense. What could anyone, even demons, do that was so horrible in just a few hours?

But deep down, deep where he stowed his mother and his father, his aspirations and Lisa and Cassie and everything else good and precious, he knew that there were a lot of things.

It wasn't hard, when you had the right tools, to make a person speak.

Sam looked at him. He could see what he was thinking, see what he wasn't saying.

Because if they were finished with her, if they had learnt what they knew that the demons had learnt, that the Winchester brothers had the ring, then she would be almost certainly dead.

Then the demons climbed out of the window, their leader, the woman, coming out first, her eyes blaring bright white, her hair blowing back in an unseen wind.

"Come on," Dean said, tugging on Sam, who was watching them come nearer, almost hypnotized by them. "Sam, _come on._"

Sam shook himself out of is reverie and followed Dean through to the carpark around the corner in front of the Motel where the impala waited, her black paint glistening in the mid-morning sun. Sam skidded around to the passengers seat and Dean thanked his niggling doubt that had prompted them to pack and stuff all their stuff in the trunk before they went off for breakfast. Sam's door closed with a bang and Dean's with a smash, the door locking in and the key lighting up the ignition. Dean backed out quickly and floored it, the car speeding out of the motel, the demons still walking towards them, eyes white, wind still blowing, glaring, staring.

"Oh God," Sam said, looking in the mirror. He looked back and Dean looked at him for a split second before turning back to the road.

"What is it?"

"They're gone," Sam said. "The demons, they're gone."

Dean glanced into the rear view mirror and started to slow to a safer speed. "You sure?"

"Positive," Sam said, his breathing was a little strained, more from worry than anything. "I just watched them vanish."

"Well, we're warded," Dean said, settling down and resting his hands on the wheel in front of him. "They shouldn't be able to find us after this."

Sam settled back into the passenger seat and gazed mournfully out of the wide window set in front of him. "Dean." His voice was quiet. "Dean, those people died because of us. Marion died because of us."

"We don't know that they're dead," Dean said firmly.

"Dean-"

"_No_, Sam," Dean said firmly. "No. End of discussion. Us turning around will only make things worse. Those people would have died if we'd left or stayed."

Sam didn't say anything, but Dean could sense his admission as he sank into the leather of the Impala and looked at the roof rather than the mirror beside him.

Dean settled down, settled his breathing and flicked on the radio. It was going to be a long drive.


	4. A Knife in the Dark

"Dean, Sam," Cas said, alighting down into the Imapla, a ruffle of wings marking his appearance. "I've been listening in on Angel Radio. You have it, the One Ring?"

"Wow, you're on tune today, Cas," Dean said, looking at Sam who'd arched his neck and greeted Cas when he'd landed. They didn't even start anymore, suddenly hearing Cas appear in the back seat. It became sort of anti-climatic after the 60th time.

"So you have it," Cas stated, his voice steadily filled with awe. "Lucifer's most prized weapon."

"Yeah," Sam said, almost quietly, putting his hand over his chest where the ring pulsed, it's energy picked up by Cas's appearance.

"What do we do, Cas?" Dean asked. "Marion Knowles-"

"Died last night," Cas frowned.

Sam clenched his jaw. "I _told _you!"

"Yeah, well," Dean said, and then seemed to forget where his train of thought was headed.

"Marion Knowles carried the weapon of the enemy and didn't succumb," Cas said, as if it might be a word of comfort. "She'll be gifted the highest honour heaven can bestow."

"Oh yeah. What's that?" Sam demanded. "A mind wipe from all the torture she went through? Her family? What?"

Cas blinked slowly. "A choice. A choice between heaven, purgatory and Hell, and a choice between eternal bliss or rebirth."

"So what did she choose?" Sam asked, suddenly quiet.

Cas's mouth tightened a little. "I don't know. I get catches of conversation, but nothing more than that. Heaven locking me out is taking its toll."

"Right," Dean said, straightening up and inching the speed up. "So, why come to us now, Cas?"

"I was wondering if you needed any help," he said, confused. "You don't want it?"

"Everyone who's helped us so far is dead," Sam said, smiling but humourless. "We don't want to add you to the list."

"Don't blame yourself for that, Sam," the angel said, his voice kindly. "They would have died no matter who the ring was given to. Had Marion not handed it on, the demons would now be shattering the world, Lucifer risen and declaring an unbeatable war on heaven."

Sam seemed to calm a little at that and Dean was thankful. He could handle a mad, vengeful Sam, but he couldn't handle a angst ridden, emo Sam. Not now, not when the world was at its end, or now that they were so close to saving it forever.

The car was silent and the angel fiddled with his hands in the back. Cas wanted to say something, or leave, this the boys knew their friend well enough to tell.

"Just spit it out, Cas," Dean said, running a hand over his eyes and pushing his hand back onto the steering wheel.

Cas knocked his knees together, just once, before he spoke. "I think I know someone who will be able to help us."

Sam looked over, wary. "Who?"

"Zachariah," Cas said, set. "He's a friend and he'll help us."

Dean looked over at Sam, and his younger brother met his eyes and gave him a slight shrug. If Cas trusted him...well, what did they have to lose?

"Alright, Cas, we'll see you," Dean said, glancing over, fully this time, head turning, not relying on the mirror. "We'll be at Harvelle's bar."

"Ellen and Jo?"

"They're the ones," Sam nodded.

Cas blinked his understanding and then disappeared, the leather that had sunk under his weight slowly rising up, the fading imprint and the rustling that heralded his farewell the only signs that he'd ever been there at all.

It was stupid, the reason that they'd had to stop. Sam had said that Dean was getting tired, and that it was his turn to drive, but Dean refused.

"No way am I going to be able to sleep with you behind the wheel," he'd said, paying for their room at another crappy motel.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Sam frowned.

"No problem," Dean grinned easily, taking back the fake credit card and picking up the slightly crusty keys from the table.

But it wasn't why, it wasn't. Sam had driven before, when Dean was too tired to argue. Perhaps a part of him was worried about what Sam's 'mediocre' driving expertise would do to his Baby, but it probably had more to do with not wanting Sam to drive through the inky blackness that had swamped the world, the night of the New Moon.

They took their duffel bags from the back of the car and carried it into the room. It was the typical affair, moth eaten doona's with stains that looked suspiciously like vomit, cigarette smoke hanging in the air. Sam wrinkled his nose against the affront when he dumped his stuff down on his bed.

"This stinks."

"Buck up, princess," Dean said, chucking his stuff down on his bed. "It's only for one night."

"No," Sam sniffed. "It literally stinks. We couldn't go into the room that hadn't just housed the chain smoker?"

Dean stretched out on his bed. "Ah, suck it up. Open up a window or something."

Sam did just the opposite. He walked over, closed the curtains and turned around and flopped onto his bed, not tired, the nap in the car full of disturbing images as always, but at least he'd gotten a bit of rest. And Dean hadn't noticed, he hoped.

Now that it came to it, Dean had seemed oddly kind to him after he'd woken up, letting him pick the music (which he declined, he wasn't in the mood for pretentious music-jerk Dean) and basically ignored it when they'd stopped off for lunch and Sam had ordered a salad. Normally that would have at least elicited a 'Rabbit Food' from his brother, but nothing, just a cheesy joke about the tacky signage and a grin when Sam sniggered at it.

"Night, Dean," Sam said, and he almost reddened when he noticed how soft his voice was, how personal.

Dean didn't seem to notice, shoes kicked off next to the bed and under the covers, face squished into the pillow as it always was. He grunted, "G'night."

Sam took his shoes off and took the getting ready for bed a few steps further than his brother. He brushed his teeth and changed into his pyjamas, settling into bed, sighing when the mattress was unusually comfortable.

He wasn't awake for very long, his brother jerking him awake. Bleary eyes saw that it was still late, one in the morning. "Sam! Sammy! C'mon man, wake up!"

Sam shook himself up, brothers hand on the front of his shirt, more of a guiding hand than physically pulling him up. "They're here, dammit, they've found us."

"How?" Sam said. "Who? What?"

Dean pulled Sam out of bed and showed him the nine people standing out by the Impala through the gap in the curtains, the blonde demon, blood still visible on her back grinning with another that they hadn't seen before.

"Ring Wraiths," the name fit on Sam's tongue, even though he'd never heard it before. "Fuck!"

"Yeah, exactly," Dean agreed, backing out of the sight of the nine. "They'll find us. What do we do?"

Sam looked back in desperation into the room and his mind clicked. "In the bathroom, there's a small window."

"Weird place for a window," Dean said.

"Yeah, still," Sam ushered Dean before him and tried not to shudder when the icy cold of the tiles lanced into his feet. He threw open the window to show him the back of the motel rooms. We can climb into another one, they'll never find us."

"Or we could leave," Dean said, looking into the poor covering the foliage would offer them.

"Which is exactly what they'd expect us to do," Sam said grimly. "We stay and hope that they leave."

"Yeah, I'm liking out chances better running away," Dean said.

"They're demons, Dean," Sam said, frustrated. "There's no way that they'll be worse off than us in the dark. It'd be better to wait until day, then at least we can call for a diversion and get away."

Dean looked up at Sam, then he sighed, running his hand through his tousled bed hair. "You're the ring bearer."

Sam thought about snapping at him, but didn't. His agreement was all he needed.

Sam ran back into the room and pulled out his clothes, stuffing them into the doona so that it looked like he was sleeping, taking extra hosiery from cupboard and pulling out a few things to get changed into so he wouldn't look like a confused hobo when he managed to get out the next day.

Dean had caught on and started stuffing his bed as well. They heard voices and had to leave the beds as they were, silently moving through the room and jumping out the window, Sam landing first, helping Dean out when his head poked out.

They dropped down and huddled close to the wall under the window, hearing the voices reach out through the window.

"Kill them," a smarmy British voice ordered.

The real Sam and Dean looked at each other and let out a short breath of relief, walking down a few houses and poking their heads in all the windows, making sure that no one was in there. Sam cracked the door open, stowing the lock pick back in jeans he'd thought to grab and pushed the door open, entering the identical room to the one they'd stayed in a few rooms down and dumping his stuff on the floor next to the bed.

The two brothers looked in the direction of the way they'd come, chills racing down their backs when they heard the Ring Wraiths scream.

"They've realised," Dean stated.

"No," Sam said, heart thumping so fast and loudly that he was certain that the Wraiths would hear it. "Really?"

Dean glared and lay down in the bed that Sam had left for him, dropping the few things he'd brought and slamming his head into the pillow.

"Now what?"

Sam sat at the end of his bed and watched the door with an eerie stillness. "We wait."

It was two hours later that Sam lay down, the stillness after the scream utterly disconcerting. It was then that Dean fell asleep, watching his brothers still silhouette enough to keep him up.

Sam didn't fall asleep that night. He was too busy listening, too busy watching and being silent.

Because, who knows? Tonight might be the night that he called out for Jess, Dean, he Dad, Mary. And that was the last thing they needed.


End file.
